Chapter 3: Gary Rydell
Neal's loft. August 26, 2004. Thursday evening.
Neal sat at the table of his apartment and refilled his glass with wine. A book on Fabergé and Sonya's photographs were scattered on the table in front of him. It was now Thursday evening, and despite intensive searches they were no closer to finding the hen. All the leads so far had come to dead ends. And with each day that passed, the chances of recovering it were growing more and more remote. Frustrating was too mild a term for this case. Depressing? Disheartening? All of the above?
He stood up and walked over to the terrace to gaze out at the city lights. Rehashing the case was going nowhere. Staring at the photos was certainly not providing any leads. And now he was reduced to quizzing himself on just how maddening was it. Groaning at the futility of it all, his eyes drifted to the easel.
Recently he had been experimenting with different painting techniques. In a week he could start using his assigned studio at Columbia and would begin work on his pieces for the end-of-year exhibition. He only had the vaguest ideas of what he wanted to paint. Swirling patterns and colors, but nothing gelled. He brooded as he observed the night sky. The cobalt blue of the horizon transitioned to a darker palette of Prussian toward the zenith. Grabbing his paints, he spread a large sheet of watercolor paper on the table.
Sometime later, the soft iambic pentameter of a knock alerted him to Mozzie's arrival. "Come in," he called out. "Door's open." Leaning back in his chair, Neal put down his brush and stretched his arms.
"Ah, the artist at work," Mozzie said as he walked in. Coming over to Neal's painting, he inspected it. "Study in Blue, I assume. Reflective of your mood perhaps?"
Neal winced as he cleaned up his supplies, "Tell me you've found something to change it."
"Stop looking at the stars when we are all in the gutter."
"And why are you mangling Oscar Wilde?"
"I believe I've found the phantom hen," he replied gleefully. "Remember Jimmy the Sneak?"
"Is he still in New York? I thought he'd headed back to Detroit a while ago."
"No, he's still holding on, which is amazing after that debacle last year." Mozzie retrieved a glass from the kitchenette and helped himself to the wine. "I tried to warn him at the time, but would he listen to me? Of course not. He was convinced that Wilkes would be his ticket to riches. It's as if—"
"Focus," Neal said impatiently. "What did you discover?"
Mozzie exhaled and took a sip. "If you insist. Nice wine, by the way, although a little too much tannin."
Neal groaned and rolled his eyes, "Tonight please."
Mozzie grinned as if he knew how annoying he was being. "It appears that Jimmy may have been contacted by our mystery assailant. Jimmy told me that a certain Frank Harper approached him looking for a fence. Harper claims to have come into possession of, and I quote, 'a valuable jeweled bird' and wants to unload it fast."
"Frank Harper? Never heard of him. Do you know anything about him?"
"Not at first, but I gleaned a few details from our friend Jimmy, enough at least to do some checking. Apparently he's a low level gutter-feeder out of Philly. I don't think he's been here very long. Jimmy said he's the type you don't want to make mad, but then Jimmy's afraid of his own shadow. How he's managed to stay in business is beyond me. Anyway, supposedly Harper is beyond nervous about this 'jeweled bird.' He worked himself into a lather just to find out the name of a fence. If you want to meet him, we should let Jimmy know tout de suite. So what do you think?"
"This is the most promising lead we've had," Neal said excitedly. "We have to pursue it. I wonder . . . this sounds like just the job for Gary Rydell. He's been lying low for quite a while and would appreciate the work."
"Ah, yes, Gary. He's always been one of my favorites, and his skills as a fence are well-known. This is perfect for him. Jimmy's dealt with him before. He could give Harper a ringing endorsement. But aren't you worried about revealing Gary to the suits?"
"They already know all my aliases. That was part of my confession, Mozz. Had to be done."
"What a waste! Do they have an ounce of appreciation for the skill that went into creating those identities? Hardly. Now Gary's just gonna be a tool for the bureaucratic warlords. It's a sad day." Mozzie sighed and pulled out his phone.
"Hold on. I have to clear this first with Peter. It's not that late—let me give him a call."
Neal called Peter and quickly filled him in on what Mozzie had discovered. "Should I go ahead and set up a meet?"
Peter took a moment to consider. "I'd rather have more information on Harper first, but yeah, from what you tell me, if we don't move fast, this guy bolts. Let me know as soon as you've set it up. I'll get to work on researching Harper."
"On it." Grinning, Neal gave Mozzie the thumbs up while he was still talking, and Mozzie went out on the terrace to call Jimmy.
When Mozzie returned, he refilled his glass. "Jimmy's going to tell Harper, you'll meet him in the warehouse district tomorrow morning. That's a public enough location—should make the suits happy."
It was after midnight by the time Mozzie left, but Neal couldn't sleep. He was too charged. The adrenaline rush had already set in. This was almost as good as the eve of a heist. Scratch that, it was better. Gary was working with the good guys now. He'd even have backup. Compared to some of Gary's previous dealings, this one would be a walk in the park.
White Collar Division. August 27, 2004. Friday morning.
Peter had hastily assembled the team for an early meeting at six in the morning. During a flurry of phone calls late the previous night, the outline had been laid out, and now Peter was meeting with Neal, Tricia, Jones, and Diana to finalize the plan.
Harper had said that at 9 a.m. he would drive up in his van to meet Neal, who would be undercover as Gary Rydell. The meet had been scheduled in a warehouse area in the lower Bronx. A one-way transmitter in Neal's watch would allow the team in the surveillance van parked a block away to hear what was going on.
Neal, in Gary Rydell mode of dark shirt and pants, had his feet propped up on the conference room table. Deftly twirling a business card in and out of the fingers in his right hand, he said, "I expect that Harper will bring photographs and maybe the stand. He won't be carrying the entire egg with him."
Peter nodded. "Agreed. Jones, what did you find out about Harper?"
"Not much and what little there is doesn't sound good. No record in New York. In Philadelphia, though, a long history of cocaine possession, drug trafficking, and armed assault. He's known to be a real hothead." Jones pulled up a photo of Harper on the screen, showing a man of medium-build, with sandy-colored hair standing up in spikes and wild-looking eyes, his arms covered in tattoos.
"This guy looks so wired, he's a ticking time bomb." Peter's concerns were escalating by the minute. This was too rushed. No time for proper research. His gut was telling him Harper was bad news. "I don't like you meeting with him alone."
Neal dismissed Peter's concerns with a shrug. "That's the way Gary always plays it. If I bring anyone else along, Harper will spook. In any case, I'll be fine. Harper wants his money. He won't do anything to spoil the deal. This meet is to assess the value of his merchandise and set up the parameters for the transaction. We'll agree on a location for the exchange, where I'll wire money into his bank account after he turns the hen over to me."
"The problem I see," said Tricia, "is that although you're obviously very comfortable with morphing into Gary, we don't know him and how he operates."
"Good point," said Peter. "Neal, keep Gary under control and remind him he's working for the FBI now. Do you think you'll be able to get Harper to trust you?"
"I do," said Neal confidently. "Jimmy's had several very profitable dealings with Gary, and Mozzie made sure Jimmy gave Harper glowing references of him. Harper's not Gary's preferred customer, but he's worked with more difficult characters."
More difficult than Harper? Peter chewed on that tidbit. Despite Neal's confession when he was recruited, there were still so many blanks in his former life that needed to be filled in. Just who were all those lowlifes that were harder to handle than Harper? That was something he needed to find out.
"I'll first offer three locations," Neal said, "and then steer him to our preferred spot for the exchange. Ideally, they should all be out in the open. The warehouse district we're using today is too confined, and there's a warren of exit routes he could use to escape. We need locations where the exits can all be monitored and roadblocks set up if necessary."
"How about Fort Washington Park in Washington Heights?" suggested Tricia. "That meets your criteria and NYPD could help monitor all the exit routes."
"That could work," Neal agreed. "If we set the exchange for early in the day, there shouldn't be any kids around. Team members could easily blend in with the joggers."
Peter pulled up a map of the city and a few other locations were tossed about, but Fort Washington Park appeared to have the most going for it. A New York Precinct Office was close by and could be used as the command center. Other options were the Chelsea Piers Sports Complex and Battery Park.
"How do you plan on getting him to agree to Fort Washington?" Diana asked.
"Demon mind-control tricks," Neal said with grin and added, "Relax, Gary is a master at this."
"We'll relax when the exchange is concluded and not before," Peter retorted. "You tell Gary not to get cocky. And just in case Harper is stupid enough to bring the entire egg with him, your activation phrase will be 'Looks like we have a deal.' If we hear that, we'll move in to make the arrest. Your panic phrase is 'Give me some time.' Don't hesitate to use it at the first suspicion of a problem."
The Bronx. August 27, 2004. Friday morning.
At 9 a.m., Neal was standing nonchalantly by a bus stop in the lower Bronx. Dilapidated warehouses in varying states of decay loomed around him. It was a sultry morning, and the air was heavy and damp with the stench of garbage. Despite his words to the contrary, Neal was uneasy about dealing with Harper. The guy appeared to be permanently whacked out on drugs. That made him unpredictable and difficult to con.
At 9:10 a battered white van pulled up and parked by the bus stop. Harper stuck his head out of the window.
"Gary Rydell? Get in."
With an easy smile, Neal nodded and entered the van. "Hi, Frank. Jimmy said you had something I might be interested in."
"Yeah, I asked around. Heard good things about you. I got a piece I know you're gonna want. I could get fifty grand for it easy, but maybe you'd pay more."
"Sure thing, let me take a look. Happy to help a friend of Jimmy's. "Perfect—the sap has no idea what he has or what its value is. This is going to more fun than I thought. "You have something to show me?"
Harper got out a velvet bag and with trembling fingers pulled out a gold basket covered in gems. "This is just part of it—there's a chicken that goes in the basket. But this should be enough. I have photos—look."
Neal pulled out his jeweler's loupe and scrutinized the basket. Studded with literally hundreds of rose-cut diamonds, the diamonds were genuine and of the highest quality. The faceting technique was of the correct period. "Not bad," he said, "but it's Victorian and Victorian antiques aren't very popular now. I could offer perhaps sixty to seventy-five grand if the rest of the piece is of equal quality."
"When you see the chicken, man, you're gonna be blown away. I bet you can get more for it. It's one helluva chicken."
Neal shrugged and studied the photos. "Look, I'd like to help you out and get the best price I can for it, but that takes time, especially for something old-fashioned like this. I could perhaps sell it for more if I knew its origin. Did you take it from your grandma's bookcase?"
Harper was growing increasingly anxious and rattled. His foot was tapping impatiently on the floorboard. "Nah, I got it off an old guy. He had some papers with it, but damn if I could read any of it. Listen man, I need the money now and then wanna get out of here. It's getting too hot."
"Hey just relax, Frank," Neal said soothingly. 'We can work this out. Sounds like your mark was probably pawning some old family baubles. How 'bout this. You bring me everything, including the papers, tomorrow morning, and if the rest holds up, I'll execute a wire transfer to your account on the spot. Seventy-five grand."
"Done. We meet back here at 7 a.m."
"Not a good idea. This area's too congested. I like to conduct business in the open. How about the Chelsea Piers Sports Complex on the west side?"
"No good. I was there a few days ago. Cops were swarming everywhere."
"There's Battery Park. It should be quiet in the morning."
"Where the hell's that?" Harper scanned the street nervously while Neal pulled out a map. "What, drive through all of Manhattan? Are you nuts? Any spot close to a freeway? New York's giving me the creeps."
"How about Fort Washington Park in Washington Heights? It's quiet, out of the way. That early in the day there won't be many people around. And it's not too far from expressways out of town."
Neal pointed out the location on the map and Harper grudgingly agreed, "Yeah, I guess. Looks simple enough to get to."
"Excellent. The park has some chess tables near the parking lot. There are always a few players there. Nobody will notice us. We can be done quickly and you'll be on your way."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
In the surveillance van, Peter and Jones were monitoring the conversation. "Good—make him talk about the victim," Peter muttered. Impressive how smoothly Neal was conning Harper, making himself out to be his friend, all the while planting the idea in his head that the object wasn't worth much. Harper sounded jittery and uneasy. Neal must have been working hard to keep him from exploding.
When he heard Neal's knock on the van door, he exhaled in relief. Jones let him in, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good job, Caffrey."
Neal was jubilant. "It's genuine, all right. Can you believe our luck to have an idiot to deal with! He has no idea how valuable it is. The basket was exquisite. The quality of the diamonds superb. Even without the egg, it's worth a fortune."
"How did his photos compare with Sonya's?"
"No doubt, it's hers. Harper obviously doesn't think it's an egg. It's a good thing; otherwise he might have made the link to Fabergé."
Peter nodded with satisfaction. Part one had gone according to plan, a promising start. "We'll finalize plans for tomorrow back at the office."
At noon the team had assembled in the conference room and held a working lunch while going over plans for the meet. A large map of Fort Washington Park was projected on the screen. There was a small area of chess tables by the parking lot for the tennis court where the exchange was scheduled to take place. Tricia and Diana would be playing tennis. Other team members would be staged throughout the area as joggers. Peter and Jones would be in an unmarked car parked near the entrance to the park. Fortunately the parking lot was not far from the entrance.
Finishing his sandwich, Peter commented, "We still have no solid evidence linking Harper to the murder. Neal, you were doing a good job in building up Harper's trust. Try to get him to incriminate himself."
"I'm hoping the papers he brings will connect him to Trifonov," Neal replied. "Was there any forensic evidence collected that will be useful?"
"The report hasn't been issued yet. Hair samples may be our best bet."
Neal stifled a yawn, and reached out for the coffee, but was stopped by Peter. "Instead of coffee, why don't you head home after the meeting and catch up on some sleep. I need to go to NYPD and coordinate their activities for tomorrow and then I'll be doing the same. The rest of you also take off. It's been an early day for all of us. We've got all the plans made. We reconvene at 5 a.m. tomorrow at NYPD's 33rd Precinct office. It's just a few blocks from the park."
Fort Washington Park. August 28, 2004. Saturday morning.
The previous evening a line of thunderstorms had moved in and broken the heat wave which had been gripping New York for the past several days. The dawn air was crisp and cool. At 6:45 a.m. Neal, clad in a hoodie and sweats, lounged at a chess table in Fort Washington Park, a copy of The New York Times spread out in front of him. He blended in well with the early morning joggers.
The change in weather was timely. A heavy hoodie such as his would have looked out of place in yesterday's stifling heat, but this was one of Mozzie's custom designs and an item Neal didn't want to be without.
During the meeting at the 33rd Precinct, they had gone over their assignments. In addition to the team members scattered around the park, NYPD would also have unmarked cars stationed nearby and would be on standby to set up roadblocks if needed.
Neal had been equipped with a watch transmitter. As he waited in the park he reviewed his signal phrases: We have a deal meant they should approach and make the arrest. This isn't right was the panic phrase. If all went as expected, Harper would bring the hen and stand as well as the papers, Neal would verify them, and then the agents would swarm in to arrest him. But it had been his experience that these exchanges never went off as planned. Not that he mentioned that to Peter, of course. Peter was fretting enough. It was beginning to get to him, and Gary needed to be at his coolest. Harper seemed perpetually to be right at the boiling point, and it would be tough to keep him from boiling over.
At 7:10 a.m. the by now familiar battered van rolled up, and Harper walked over toward him. Greeting him with a friendly smile and a wave, Neal motioned him to sit down.
Neal was dismayed to see that, judging by his dilated pupils, Harper was already higher than a kite. Instead of looking at Neal, he scanned the area anxiously, all the while tapping his foot uneasily.
"Relax, Frank," Neal said quietly, seeking to calm him down. "Just a few pigeons and joggers—no one's gonna bother us. We're out here enjoying the weather. Everything's cool. Do you have the items?"
"Yeah, okay. Let's get this over." Pulling out the velvet bag from his jacket in a jerky motion, Harper shook out the contents onto the table.
It was hard to remain calm as Neal got his first look at the hen. The blue egg-shaped sapphire in the bill was spectacular, and the hen itself was studded with so many diamonds, it appeared too brilliant to be held. Studying it through the jeweler's loupe was breathtaking. "Not bad," he said. "You got the papers?"
"Oh, yeah. Damned if I can make them out. Some sort of scrawls."
The "scrawls" appeared to be Trifonov's notes. Nodding Neal said, "I think we have—" when the quiet was shattered by the blare of fire engines and police sirens.
The already agitated Harper whipped out a gun and pointed it at Neal's face. "What are you trying to pull?" he snarled.
"Hey, Frank, relax. Why are you waving that gun at me? You trying to attract attention? That's just a fire truck. We're fine."
"No way, this place is a trap—the cops are coming!" Grabbing the hen and papers, Harper continued to brandish the gun inches from Neal's face. "Get in the van. We'll finish later."
Faced with a doped-out murderer in possession of a priceless Fabergé egg who was prodding him in the face with a gun, Neal saw no alternative but to comply. He had barely gotten in the van when with a screech of brakes Harper spun the van around and sped off. Ignoring the road, he plowed diagonally across the open field and raced onto a side street. Nope, definitely not according to plan.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Listening to the conversation going on between Neal and Harper, Peter wished they had a video feed. His binoculars simply weren't cutting it. Harper's voice sounded even more unhinged than the day before, and the way Neal was using his most soothing tones made him believe the man was already wasted. This case couldn't be wrapped up quickly enough. Harper was so irrational, there was no telling what he might do. Peter hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he heard Neal start to use the activation signal, when he let out a deep exhale.
Then all hell broke loose.
Damn it, where did those fire engines come from? Their blaring horns sounded even more jarring in the stillness of the morning. And now Harper was pointing a gun right at Neal's face. Peter barked out orders for everyone to stand down. If anyone tried to approach Harper in the state he was in, Neal wouldn't stand a chance.
When the van headed off across the field, Peter and Jones followed at a safe distance. They didn't dare attempt an overt chase. It was simply too risky.
Neal was trying to convince Harper to pull over and finish the exchange. "We could go south and get on the Hudson River Greenway and stop at one of the pull-offs. There won't be anyone around to disturb us." Neal sounded totally relaxed like they were planning a picnic.
"You crazy? We gotta get out of the city. They're on to us. Maybe you're one of them. I should just shoot you now."
"Well, that's a nice way to treat a friend," Neal said, somehow managing to convey hurt surprise, as if he and Harper were pals quarreling over a lunch bill. "It was bad enough you insisted on tying me up. How am I expected to pay you if I'm shot? You really should stop pointing your gun at me and keep both hands on the wheel. Let's just pull off and finish the exchange. It will only take me a minute to wire the funds and then you can be on your way."
Jones and Peter exchanged tense looks as Peter updated the police. Could this get any worse? Neal's chances of subduing Harper had plummeted. Their best hope now was that Neal could persuade him into pulling over.
The van lurched and careened its way south as it appeared that Neal had convinced Harper to go along the greenway, then it swerved abruptly and drove back across the fields. It reentered the roadway, barely missing a truck.
Harper's van was moving so erratically it was nearly impossible to keep up with him without revealing they were following him. Just when they were drawing close, it spun off into a side street and they got stuck behind some garbage trucks. Peter cursed in frustration. This was taking way too long. They needed to stop it now.
Neal was trying to reason with him. "You don't want to get on the expressway," Neal was warning. "We'll get caught in traffic. Everyone's leaving town for the weekend. We should stay on the side streets."
"That's right, Caffrey. Keep him on the side streets," Jones said as he listened to the feed. "Maybe he can free himself and jump out."
"Unlikely," Peter muttered. "He's trying to save the op. He's not thinking about himself."
"You're annoying the hell out of me. Can't you hear those sirens? The cops are right behind us."
"Harper's not buying it," Peter said, craning his neck to try to keep up with the van.
"You don't want to try for the bridge. I heard they're doing maintenance there. The bridge may even be closed. Then we'd really be stuck. There's another park just north of here where we could finish the transaction."
"Stop your bellyaching!" Harper screamed at Neal. "If you don't shut up, I'll silence you myself."
As soon as Peter heard Neal's words he got on the phone with NYPD. "We need to close the George Washington Bridge now. Set up the roadblocks." He prayed Neal's tactics would keep Harper from going ballistic when he saw the bridge closed.
It was impossible to tell if Neal was trying to take over control of the van, but Harper was driving like a madman. At this point Peter abandoned all attempts to conceal their pursuit. Jones hurriedly stuck a police beacon on top of the car and braced himself as Peter slammed his foot on the accelerator, narrowly missing a passing car as their car shot forward.
When they'd closed the gap to about a hundred yards, the van reached the toll plaza where the police were still putting up roadblocks. Ignoring the police and their shots, the van mowed through the barricades and sped onto the upper level of the George Washington Bridge, followed closely by Peter and Jones.
As the van wove its way erratically between trucks, the screaming of brakes filled the air. But by some miracle it avoided any collisions, and it looked like it might actually make it across the bridge. The New Jersey police had been alerted to stop it when it got off the bridge, which now appeared to be the best case scenario.
But that all changed about halfway across the bridge.
Misjudging the distance, the van struck the side of a tractor-trailer with an ear-piercing screech of metal against metal. Unable to do anything to prevent it, Peter and Jones could only watch in horror as the force of the collision catapulted the van up into the air.
The van crashed onto the concrete side of the bridge, where it rocked precariously for a few brief seconds. Any hope that a further disaster could be averted was quickly dashed, however, when the van tilted too far forward and plunged headlong into the Hudson River some thirty feet below.
Notes: What happens to Neal in the murky waters of the Hudson will be covered in the next chapter. Many thanks to my magnificent beta reader Penna Nomen for keeping me from falling off the bridge along with Neal.
Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals: The Golden Hen board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website
